The Book of Anna

by Carmen Boullosa

  “What are you looking at, young lady? What do you see? You like my cloak? I made it myself. And look at my dress.”

  Clementine unties the neck of her cloak and opens it slowly. In daylight, we’d be able to see that Clementine is wearing the dress Anna Karenina wore thirty years ago when she attended the concert where Madame Kartasova insulted her from the adjacent box, publicly humiliating her—the same insult that Sergei is reliving this very night.

  The dress is one of many that Karenina’s pseudo mother-in-law (Vronsky’s mother), the Countess Vronskaya, donated to charity in a fit of wicked revenge, hoping women of the night would use them. When Clementine was let out of jail, they gave it to her because they’d “lost” the one she was wearing when she was admitted, a dress notable for its craftsmanship, in both its cut and its stitching, which some jerk took as a gift for his wife, daughter, or lover.

  Karenina’s dress is still magnificent, but not as much as it was decades earlier. Made in Paris especially for her, heavy velvet and light silk cut to her size and exact specifications, we won’t worry about its original color, Tolstoy doesn’t specify, and anyway, it would be impossible to recognize in its original state. All we know is that it was a light color. Something between cream and lilac, but most likely a pale burgundy faded over time, a dusty pink that stands out from the colors that are all the rage in St. Petersburg this season. The dress has a low neckline; it reveals the shoulders and hugs the waist with panels of silk that were, and still are, a paler tone. Clementine doesn’t wear it like Anna, with a shawl that sets off her face, but with a sort of hat made from strips of hide that frame her face and cover her neck, throat, and shoulders.

  Anna Karenina wore two bouquets of fresh pansies with colorful petals, one adorning the laces of her bodice and another in her curly hair, embellished with little feathers and a lace bow. Clementine has braided broken feathers together to look like flowers, tied them to her bodice, and woven them into her thick hair, beneath the hat, which, at first sight, looks like part of her cloak.

  Aleksandra ponders this bizarre outfit but doesn’t appreciate its worth. She smiles politely in silence, thinking, Giorgi is crazy, what a strange woman he’s managed to find….

  8. Intermission at the Concert

  When the concert breaks for intermission, Claudia says loudly, “Wagner bewilders me!” and with a gesture that says, I’ve had enough, she moves on to another subject. The sensory overload has made her forget her worries. Her lovely white dress, made of silk overlaid with lace, still shows a trace of her discombobulation: the lace she wears to cover her décolletage is out of place, twisted to one side.

  Sergei gets up, the last composition still in his head, Anton Rubinstein’s Concerto no. 4 for Piano. He’s moving toward the door of the box when a stranger accosts him. In French, he introduces himself as the new ambassador to St. Petersburg, mumbling an incomprehensible name and omitting the nation he represents.

  “The person you need to meet is my wife, the daughter of Ambassador—”

  “Yes, I know who she is, it would be a pleasure to meet her. But I’m more interested in you. You see …” He takes a step into the box, cornering Sergei. “I’ve read Tolstoy’s novel so many times that you could even say I’ve memorized it. I’m overcome by the incredible opportunity to speak with one of its characters….”

  “Your excellency,” Claudia interrupts, getting out of her seat; she’s been listening, trying to distinguish a foreign accent in that perfect Parisian French. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Shall we go down to toast your arrival in St. Petersburg with a glass of champagne? We’ll have plenty more opportunities to chat about a lot of things. But first we must welcome you.”

  Claudia offers him her arm, smiling, and continues speaking. “The pleasure is mine. I’m Claudine Karenina,” she emphasizes the a at the end of her name, the way the French do. “Where were you stationed last? You know …”

  She doesn’t stop speaking and brings the foreigner along with her; he can’t decline her company. Claudia is beguiling. It’s clear from her familiar gestures and her tone of voice that she’s cast the net of her charms over him.

  Sergei overhears the ambassador saying, “When I read Anna Karenina …”

  Anya has passed unnoticed by the eyes of this particular reader. Neither her beauty nor her likeness to the protagonist caught his attention. “Another one who forgot I was ever born,” she says under her breath, resigned, and then, raising her voice and rising from her chair, “Sergei, since Claudia has been stolen from us,” accentuating the second a in Claudia, “would you be so kind as to accompany me to the bar?”

  She gives him her arm, and together they exit the balcony. Sergei is so upset by the ambassador’s forwardness that he goes along. They haven’t taken more than ten steps when a group of men breaks their circle, waylaying the Karenins.

  “Count, what do you think?”

  “About what?” Sergei has no idea what they’re referring to. He thinks, They must be going on about that stupid war in Japan again.

  A man with a red beard steps between them and begins ranting, “Anton Rubinstein, mentioning Anton Rubinstein when the Jewish conspiracy …” but no one pays him any attention. The redbeard continues, and the group does too.

  “Opinion’s divided, and we want to know yours. Is every Russian laborer a peasant, a bearer of the cross, a krest’ianin? Or have we developed what is referred to in Europe as ‘the working class’?”

  Observing Sergei’s expression, which says, What on earth are you talking about? someone else adds, “It came up because of the strike. I think General Panteleev is right: we should raise their wages and sort out their housing and the problem of health care too.”

  Everyone has an opinion.

  “And how are we going to pay for that? Our taxes?”

  “The factory owners should cover the costs.”

  “That’s a fantasy. The financial implications would put thousands out of work. The cure would be worse than the disease.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better in the long-term to improve their working conditions?”

  “That’s a ridiculous argument.”

  “There must be a way to share wealth that helps laborers to acquire their own homes. And maintain law and order in the meantime. That would be some protection against unrest. We’ve had 550 strikes in the past two years.”

  “That’s an exaggeration.”

  “No, that’s the actual number.”

  “Zubatov had the magic formula: ‘The only way for the state to keep the revolutionary forces in line is the cooperation of law enforcement and the working class.’”

  The first man speaks again. “That’s what I was referring to, Father Gapon and his followers.”

  “He’s been called every name in the book, an imposter, a troublemaker, a Japanese agent, but maybe he’s the spokesperson who could help us reach a truce.”

  “Or he’s the chosen one, or he’s got a personal vendetta….”

  Anya slips her arm out of Sergei’s but doesn’t stop smiling. Court intrigues and the vicissitudes of government bore her, but above all these political topics. Sergei has no interest, either, but it’s a relief when Anya releases him, and he’s about to ask another question when the young man who rings the bell to announce the end of intermission passes by, recognizing Sergei. “Count Karenin, a pleasure.” His politesse and the twinkle in his eye chill Sergei to the bone. He thinks, Is there anyone here who sees me not as a character, but as a person? Even I think of myself as a character, a character who’s about to lose everything.

  It’s no deep thought; it’s the refrain he often repeats to himself, one Claudia knows well. It doesn’t take a letter from the tsar to remind him of the bit about losing everything. He lost everything as a child. If he survived, it’s because, without realizing it, he intuited what his mother said to herself: I renounce everything I adore and care most for in this world, my son and my reputation. If I’ve sinned, I deserve neit
her happiness nor divorce, and I accept the shame, along with the pain and the separation.

  It’s in this same spirit that he breaks away from the gentlemen’s lively debate in search of Anya. He returns to the box with her, where Claudia is waiting for them.

  “Things are going badly, Sergei,” his wife says in his ear. “Lots of people left after Anton Rubinstein’s piece because he’s a Jew. How is that possible? What’s wrong with people?”

  But Sergei pays no attention to her. He doesn’t hear her. He’s bewildered, deep in his unhappiness. He nods as if she’s said something banal. He just wants to enjoy the concert and forget about everything else. The music begins, and he lets go, completely submerged in the notes, so enraptured that you’d think he’s in a trance.

  9. Near the Port

  Not far from the river, in southwest St. Petersburg, the Karenins’ carriage stops in front of the Putilov factory warehouse, where the strike started. Clementine gets out without a word and disappears from sight in the blink of an eye. Giorgi, the coachman, gets down from his seat and goes over to a small group of strikers and activists gathered around a fire.

  “Good evening, Volodin. I’ve got Vladimir’s sister with me, she wants to know if there’s any news about her brother….”

  “Quiet! Yes, I’ll talk to her, I know who can fill her in,” Volodin says. Without waiting for a reaction or reply from Giorgi, he walks over to the carriage and says to Aleksandra, “I’m Volodin. I’ll take you to someone who will explain everything. Don’t worry, your brother is fine.”

  “Has he returned?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know he’s fine if he hasn’t come back?”

  Giorgi leans into the window too. “I need to get going, the Karenins will be leaving the theater soon. Aleksandra, you’re in good hands.” And to Volodin: “Shall I come back for her?”

  “We’ll look after her. No need.”

  “All right, Aleksandra?”

  “Thank you, Giorgi, thank you. I’m fine.”

  Aleksandra gets out of the carriage. Giorgi says goodbye and takes the reins; the horses set off at a trot.

  “That’s how children get run over!” Volodin says to Aleksandra. “They pass through the streets without heeding anything but their own desires…. They think they own this city.”

  They enter a dark alley. Aleksandra takes small, mincing steps—the elegant summer shoes she wears (a gift from her employer) keep her from making much progress through the snow, but Volodin is a fish in water.

  10. More Specifics about Sergei

  It’s not easy to pin down dates in Sergei’s life. In 1873, when Tolstoy first wrote about him—Anna Karenina’s son appears early in the novel—and began to publish his story in the Russian Messenger, Sergei was eight years old. An eight-year-old newborn. He’s eight years old again when the first edition of the complete novel is published in 1878, but a few pages later, when the dramatic events of the novel take place, he’s two years older. So, for our purposes, he has three birthdates: 1873, when Tolstoy created him; 1865, when he was born in the novel; and 1878, when he appears in print for all posterity. For the monolingual English reader, Sergei arrives on this earth in 1886, the year the first English translation appeared; from his own point of view he was born in ’78 (though for our purposes, he was already ten years old by then).

  This bafflement of dates might help us understand Sergei’s frame of mind at the concert, a sort of trance that cannot be attributed only to the arrival of today’s letter at his home, or to the presence of his sister, Anya, or to the fact that he’s been seated in the box made famous by Karenina, or to the comments of the ambassador recently arrived in St. Petersburg. Because Sergei becomes so wrapped up in himself and the music that it’s like something out of a novel, you could even say it’s mystical, though that’s not the case. When he comes out of this spiritual trance, Sergei is resolved, an unusual state of mind for him; he’s not normally decisive.

  His decisiveness is not the least bit voluntary; he’s possessed by a sense of resolve when he comes out of the trance the music has put him in. He sees clearly what he’s going to do. His life will change. His features radiate an uncharacteristic certainty. Today I define my future. He feels proud, like a real man, like he’s given birth to himself, jettisoning the inertia of his fictitious nature.

  (He doesn’t think it’s unlikely, or impossible, that a being who’s been given a fixed, immutable past can change his own destiny. The future doesn’t fall on top of you like a gravestone. People create their own present, molding it, changing it from what has been in the past. But a being that has a fixed past, a written past, is by definition inert, indecisive, like a figure frozen in musical statues, the children’s game. Someone else dictates the pose they adopt or lets them take a few steps. It’s the music that gives Sergei the very real illusion of being human, the illusion that he can make decisions like anyone else. And he does; he seizes the illusion. He is happy.)

  When the concert ends, the three Karenins leave their box. Claudia says hello to some friends, Anya receives numerous compliments—“She’s always the loveliest,” “You never look a day older”—and all the while Sergei stares at his own shoes, lifting his gaze only when Fyodor, the old usher, mutters something as he hands them their coats. Sergei acknowledges the comment, but he doesn’t hear it, which is just as well. Fyodor’s “I always remember your mother” would have been another blow to his spirit.

  Back in the carriage, Sergei shifts his gaze from his shoes to the street outside. The two women are chattering away. Sergei doesn’t hear them, caught up in his inner joy: Today my life will change. When they leave Anya at the Karenin Palace, Sergei shrugs his shoulders goodbye. The two women look at each other, stifling their laughter.

  “What did I tell you, Anya? It’s the music, see what it does to him, it’s like he’s on another planet.”

  Sergei doesn’t hear this comment either, doesn’t even notice their smiles of complicity.

  The couple returns home in silence. Giorgi, the coachman, whistles a tune that the noise along the avenue prevents Claudia from hearing.

  11. Kapitonich, Hall Porter at the Karenin Palace

  Kapitonich opens the door for Anya. The old hall porter who appears in Tolstoy’s novel is exactly the same as Tolstoy left him; time hasn’t changed him one bit. Since Anna killed herself, he hasn’t set foot outdoors, except once. He didn’t even attend his own daughter’s funeral five years ago; she had been a dancer with the Ballets Russes. He lives shut away in the Karenin Palace, dedicated to preserving it exactly as it appeared in the novel, with two differences: The first is that Count Karenin personally redecorated Anya’s room when he took custody of her from Vronsky. The second is that the portrait of Anna Karenina in her youth was removed from the count’s office, despite the fact that it depicted her before she fell in love with Vronsky and “changed.” Nothing else has moved and everything is perfectly preserved, thanks to Kapitonich’s endless care (and his fictitious nature).

  But Kapitonich isn’t himself today. Anya can tell from the moment he opens the door. His disposition, which makes him the ideal hall porter—the staunch defender of domestic stability—seems shaken. Kapitonich keeps his silence, as he usually does, but there’s something different in his features and his posture.

  “Good evening, Kapitonich. Is everything all right?”

  It takes Kapitonich a moment to reply. Even more strangely, he doesn’t reach out to take her coat. In a controlled voice, but with an angry huff, he says, “No, Mademoiselle Anya, everything’s not all right.”

  Anya is startled by the way he pronounces these few words.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Well …”

  Kapitonich seems distracted, far away.

  “What happened, Kapitonich? Don’t keep me in suspense!”

  The hall porter of the Karenin Palace looks at her as if he’s just realized she’s standing there. He quickly takes the coat sh
e’s holding out and, recovering his usual aplomb, says in a shaky voice, “Marietta went out!”

  Anya understands who he’s talking about, and she doesn’t correct him by saying the name of her maid, Aleksandra, the young woman who replaced Marietta. She can’t believe Aleksandra dared disobey her.

  “What did Aleksandrina do?”

  “She left.”

  “What do you mean she left? She took her things?”

  “No, no, no, mademoiselle. She didn’t take anything.” The seasoned old hall porter is out of sorts, but he also feels the need to calm her down. He knows the whole point of his role in the household is to ensure its order and tranquility. From the moment anyone steps over the threshold, it’s Kapitonich’s job to make them feel at home.

  “What are you saying, Kapitonich? I don’t understand.”

  “Aleksandra didn’t leave, she went out.”

  “At this hour?” Anya is still upset, she doesn’t notice Kapitonich has returned to being himself.

  Kapitonich breathes deeply. He won’t tell her that Giorgi came by to pick her up and is her accomplice. That would be too much; he can’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he says, “Three days ago Aleksandra received a letter. Today a telegram arrived. When you left for the concert, Aleksandra rushed up and down the stairs a few times. I couldn’t tell what was going through her mind…. Then she called me and she said, ‘Mr. Kapitonich, I’m going! I can’t say no! If the mistress doesn’t want me back, I understand, but I can’t not go….’” The hall porter loses his composure again. “She wasn’t even going to cover her head, the poor thing! I insisted….”

  Anya considers her reply. She has mixed feelings; she’s angry and upset.

  “Did Aleksandra say she’d come back?”

  “Yes, yes, mademoiselle, she’ll be back by tomorrow morning, perhaps I shouldn’t have worried you, but … she left some papers for you.” Kapitonich puts them in Anya’s hands. “Mademoiselle Anya … I tried to dissuade her. There was nothing else I could do…. She was wearing summer shoes, Mademoiselle Anya.”